


My Name to You

by LadyRuebo



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, Gnomes and speedos, Gohan’s green dad, Hope floats, Love beyond skin deep, Rainbows aren’t all...well sunshine and rainbows, Sky castle, What’s your name again mister?, Who knew roses can bleed?, You and I are the same, Zoom Nimbus!, clouditude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRuebo/pseuds/LadyRuebo
Summary: Seven-year-old Pan hasn't met heartache, but dear Mr. Piccolo is ill, even stumping the mind of Bulma Briefs! Gohan isn't ready for the harsh reality of life and death to shatter Pan's innocence. Gohan reluctantly leaves Pan with Goku,hoping that Goku's interest in personal relationships will be kindled. Pan and Goku find Earth's pain and hope at the rainbow...in the flesh.





	My Name to You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I want to thank each of you for reading this story. This is my first time posting on AO3, and I can’t wait to hear from you guys! Please feel free to make suggestions for new story ideas and perspectives.
> 
> With Love,
> 
> Lady Ruebo

Gohan remembered second grade— he thought. At least he remembered the books his mother stacked on his desk. Until the ninth grade, Chi-chi filled most of the roles in his life: mother, friend, provider, disciplinarian, and teacher. His classroom was a wooden desk with a wobbly leg, tucked in the corner of his bedroom. He remembered how the Grungy halls of East Star high seemed exotic on his first day of high school, like nasty candy wrapped in pretty gold foil.  
Gohan looked down at his only daughter, now seven years old. He remembered the day she was born. He would never forget the swell of adoration and most of all—the fear. All it took was for her to set bug brown eyes on him. Determination sparked a fire in his heart; her life would be different.  
Today, Pan was eager and bored. It was a dangerous combination for her. Golden Dawn Academy had small class rooms by design, encouraging teacher engagement. Pan just saw it as a social opportunity, not a four figure investment. Pan wiggled in her black flats. The teacher, Ms. Mio a ‘green’ teacher entering her second professional year corralled thirteen chatting second graders back to their desks.  
Ms. Mio threw her straight black hair over her shoulder. She clapped her narrow hands together, and a hush fell over the room. In general, Pan didn’t mind the quiet minutes of life because she noticed the little details, like birds chirping or soft green leaves shimmering after a. summer shower. Today, it wasn’t the silence pan hated. It was the squeaky ceiling fan beating the air. The flapping poster on the back wall made her sweat. The blank eyes of her classmates made Pan’s ears burn.  
“You’re going to do fine,” Gohan whispered to her, and gently nudged her with his elbow.  
“Good Morning,” Ms. Mio announced, “Happy Monday!”  
“Marvelous Monday!,” the children responded.  
Ms. Mio nodded with approval, “Today is the first day of our parent-project series. I urge you all to give Pan your undivided attention,” she added behind a rehearsed smile.  
The teacher’s eyes settled on a little ginger boy sitting in the far back.  
Pan clutched her poster board to her chest. Her wide, apprehensive eyes raised to her father.  
“Go on,” he said with an amused grin.  
Pan drudged forward, dragging the soles of her glittery black shoes.  
“So tell us about your guest,” Ms. Mio guided.  
“Well, here’s my dad,” Pan said casually and motioned with her head.  
Friendly snickers echoed off the windows and walls. Her cheeks suddenly cooled, and her hands warmed.  
“Daddy’s name is Gohan Son and he’s a search-fellow at the university.”  
“Research Fellow,” Gohan warmly corrected her.  
“Which one?,” Ms. Mio asked.  
“The one on upper King street,” Pan said.  
“Oxford’s Imperial University of Japan,” Gohan filled in.  
“So, you’re a teacher?”  
“Uh, yes,” Gohan sighed.  
Might as well be, he thought.  
“Tell us about your project Pan, “Ms. Mio attempted to get her back on task.  
“We did a poster’ bout vironmental science—the weather and stuff.”  
Pan looked down at the board.  
“Rainbows,” she read and wiped her finger below the colorful letters, “Rainbows are arches of color that appear when light passes through water in the air,” Pan gulped and looked beyond her classmates’ expectant faces, “Rainbows can happen anytime- night or day, and they happen everywhere. They can be big or little and don’t always show up in the sky,” Pan said looking down at her feet.  
“Where else can they happen?,” Ms. Mio said and crossed her arms.  
“Uh, like over a waterfall, or a lake. There’s gotta be fog over the lake though,” Pan answered.  
“Oh,” Pan almost forgot, “The colors are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo , and violet—Roy G. Biv.”  
“Good job! Everyone thank Pan for her presentation,” the teacher insisted.  
The children stood at their desks and bowed. Pan returned a quick bow, taking a cue from her father.  
“The class will ask questions now,” Ms. Mio guided them, “Remember, we raise our hands. I’ll go first. Pan, where were you and Mr. Son able to observe a rainbow.”  
“No, but my grandpa took me to see one near Mount Paos.”  
“Can rainbows happen when it’s cold outside?,” a little girl in the second row asked.  
“I dunno-daddy?,” Pan turned to Gohan.  
“Yes, a rainbow may appear as long there is liquid water.”  
“So, like the North Pole?”  
“Yeap, if conditions are right. It has to be snowing, or if the air’s dirty you might see a halo or a sun dog, which are other light phenomenons.”  
“Mister what’s a fen-o-men-on?,” Hiro Toyotaro said.  
“It’ just something weird that happens,” Pan butted in.  
“But weird stuff happens all the time,” another child said matter of factly.  
Gohan’s smile couldn’t cover his embarrassment.  
“Oh, well—,” Gohan started.  
“It’s what adults say to us when they really don’t get it either, kind of like playing pretend,” Pan cut her father off.  
“Not today guys…,” Ms. Mio chanted, like it was some unwelcome mantra.  
“Hey Pan, was there a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?,” Hal Mcwiggins called from the back, with his black eyes as bright as his copper tinted head.  
“Hal!,” ms. Mio scolded him, “ Be respectful. Do you want to have your normal desk back?”  
Pan looked up at her father, completely ignoring the surrounding conversation. Gohan lowered his brows and adopted the steepest tone he could achieve in a whisper. Her white teeth appeared between her lips. Pan’s eyes twinkled with rebellious delight.  
“Oh no…no!,” Gohan commanded and feverishly shook his head. His stoic façade crumpled under fear for the present and future.  
Kami help me, he thought as he replayed the glimpse of unholy teenage mutiny that awaited him in six more years.  
“No gold,” Pan blurted, “But there was this ginormous floaty castle in the sky!,” she said dropping her presentation board and stretching her arms as far as they would go.  
The laughing stopped, but Pan kept going. She bowed up on her tip-toes and her eyes dialated with the crazed memory.  
“Then there were—,” Pan rattled.  
“Wait, how’d you get up there,” a little boy slurred with no front teeth.  
“We flew,” Pan said like his obliviousness annoyed her, “Then there were these little trolls that made all the colors in the big wide world. They were super nice except one of ‘em. I followed some pretty flowers to a cave and he promised to make sensei Piccolo better if I—”  
“My goodness Pan!,” Ms. Mio said.  
Pan hushed beneath her teacher’s outburst. The children were glued to the edges of their seats. Gohan pinched the bridge of his nose and slipped his reading glasses into his pocket. He took at deep breath and tried to swallow his failure to protect pan from the most obvious threat: human scrutiny.  
“I am so sorr—”  
“Mr. Son, I had no idea that you also worked in the department of literature. I’ve read your dissertations before, but wow. How creative to let Pan help you for her parent project!”  
“Oh, yes,” he answered, allowing his narrow eyes to settle on Pan. Pan clasped her hands behind her back and nodded vigorously. Her eyes drooped to the concrete floor.  
“Let’s thank Pan and Mr. Son for all their hard work,” Ms. Mio applauded.  
“Daddy,” Pan mumbled below the clapping hands.  
“Yeah.”  
“I did good?”  
Gohan hesitated with a exhausted smile, “Yes Pan-chan.”

CHAPTER 2

Pan enjoyed winter the least among the other seasons although it brought some of her favorite things, like snow ball fights and walking on the frozen river with grandpa Goku. Her new favorite was quiet evenings at the Brief’s residence, playing with Bulla on the screened in patio. Pan sat with her back to the churning gas heater. Her afternoons with Sensei Piccolo at Kami’s lookout became sparse. She missed the little, insignificant things the most, like the two hard boiled eggs waiting for her everyday in the otherwise empty kitchen refrigerator.  
“What’re you sad about?,” Bulla grabbed Pan’s attention.  
“I ain’t sad,” Pan said and ran her forearm across her nose.  
“Alrighty then,” Bulla said pulling her toys out of a wooden crate, “Do you want midnight sparkle or rainbow hash?”  
“ooooo! I want—,” Pan paused and stared at the pony’s rainbow mane. Her hand hovered over Rainbow Hash.  
“Midnight Sparkle,” she half whined, “Bulla?”  
“Do what?”  
“Have you ever thought about it?”  
“Thought about what?”  
Pan scanned the room nervously with her eyes and leaned closer, “We’re not the same as the rest of ‘em…at school I mean.”  
“Yeah, I know all ‘bout that…,” Bulla paused after her quiet words, “You know what though.”  
“What?”  
“You and I are the same. Now, do you want her comb?,” Bulla asked as she smoothed down the mane of her plastic horse.  
“Yeap. It’s sorta ratty ‘n fuzzy.”  
“Like Trunks’ hair in the morning,” Bulla yawned.  
Pan giggled at the off color remark. Pan envied Bulla in a way that bordered amusement and adoration. Bulla’s flat voice and straight face added to Pan’s laughter. Bulla talked with her hands. Pan usually knew what was coming before it came from her friend’s mouth. Pan wasn’t sure why she kept laughing. Her mother refers to it as shock factor, but Pan wasn’t completely sure what Videl meant.  
“Mr. Wudo—the computer guy— was talking about how much Ms. Mio liked your parent-project.”  
“Really, really?”  
“Yep. Some garb ‘bout gnomes and rainbows.”  
“Gnomes? They got it all wrong!,” Pan vented.  
“Gnomes are yuck and weird anyway, except for grandpa Brief’s coy pond gnome. It’s well… gnomey in the face—”  
“In the face?,” Pan busted with laughter.  
“Yeah, you know. Anyway, he has no clothes on over his red Spuh-doo.”  
“What the heck’s a Spur-doo?”  
“Like a bathing suit thing for boys, not little boys though. Mom’s tryna get grandpa to move it.”  
“Spuuuh-Dooo!,” Pan howled.  
“You sound like a whale,” Bulla belly laughed,” Spluuuh-Doooop!”  
“Splooooop!”  
“Bwuuuhhh!”  
“Blaahhhh!”  
“For a while, I forgot you two were in here. I thought I was hearing things,” Bulma said from her seat at the patio table. Whis snickered an brought his tea cup to his lips. Beerus ignored his colossal bowl of chili for the first time that evening; he gave the girls his heaviest side-eye.  
“Oh,” Bulla answered her mother.  
“You both need to be quiet,” Vegeta spoke up,” And you need to be more direct,” he turned to his wife.  
“As much as I tend to agree, this garbage about rainbow goblins is quite interesting.”  
Beerus planted his hand by his soup and looked over the table. His teeth glittered with saliva, matching his glassy leer.  
“Beerus -Sama, stop leaning on the table,” Whis groaned.  
“As I was saying before being rudely interrupted,” Bulla resumed, “I think it has something to do with Earth’s water.”  
Whis eyeballed the hourglass shaped vessel in Bulma’s hand.  
“Silly me! I forgot he doesn’t eat!,” Whis laughed behind a fake smile.  
Whis pulled Piccolo’s wooden flask from Bulma’s hand. He popped the cork from the flask with his purple thumb nail. He loomed over the smooth wood vessel and sniffed its mouth.  
“I ran hundreds of tests. There’s a residue on the inside, but I’m not sure. I just need more time, and I don’t have it.”  
“You mean Piccolo doesn’t have it,” Whis leaned closer.  
“Exactly.”  
Bulma wanted to crawl under the table and hide. Shame replaced her self-regard. She flashed Whis a fake smile. She wanted nothing more than for Piccolo to get better, but she wanted to figure out the illness, alone. The common cold in an alien body defeated her genius.  
“A diversion will do us all some good,” Whis said, turning to the girls.  
“Wait—,” Bulma’s temper flared.  
“Pan, Lord Beerus would love to hear your story,” Whis grabbed the girl’s attention.  
“Might as well. I’m bored,” Beerus said.  
Bulma couldn’t hold it in anymore, “Are you freaking kidding me!”  
“Patience Bulma,” he interrupted her with a quiet smile.  
The eyes of the room fell on Pan. She shrugged her shoulders and combed her pony’s hair.  
“Daddy and I went to get grammy’s spices…”

CHAPTER 3

Gohan had seen it almost everyday for years , but Pan’s smile caught him by surprise. It was like hiccuping when he expected laughter. A grin tugged on the corners of his lips. He pushed his black glasses up his nose, careful to not let go of the brown paper bags in his hand.  
“Daddy, look at those roses!,” Pan said.  
“So pretty, huh Pan-Chan. They’re called carnations.”  
“Does Sensei Piccolo like flowers?”  
“I’d suppose… if you gave them to him,” Gohan smiled.  
Pan’s, roasted chestnut-brown eyes were warm, even welcoming in the blanketing haze of fog, like the torch lights burning by the front door of the shops’ entrances.  
They were two blocks away from their home and walled garden, but Gohan’s heart stirred. The grey skies made his hand linger closer to his seven-year-old daughter. The drizzling sheets of rain turned his head over his shoulder all morning long. A cold, familiar chill nipped at the back of his neck, but the narrow cobble stone was always the same—empty. Pan would stop a few feet shy of her father. Their silent stares said the same thing: I heard it too.  
Peaking bands of sunshine drew Gohan’s eyes to the flower shop. Tightly wrapped bundles sat on the modest counter. A grey woman nodded at Pan behind the counter as Pan tidied the yellow blooms with her curious fingers.  
“Daddy?,” Pan said tugging her father’s black trousers.  
Gohan stuffed his hand into his pocket. He was careful not to catch the weathered leather band of his watch. Pan cupped her empty hand. The sharp sunlight sheened off the silver coins pinched between Gohan’s fingers. Her eyes fluttered as he dropped them into her hand. She smacked the chilled coins on the rotten-wood counter. The grey shop keeper’s wrinkled fingers scraped the change into her own palm.  
“Take which ever one you want,” the keeper mumbled behind her gentle, thin lips.  
Pan froze, and stared at the woman’s thin birdy shoulders. Her feathery voice perplexed pan. The girl’s thoughts wandered to her mother, then to Grammy Chi-chi. For the first time Pan realized the withered years come to all— all those she loved.  
Pan wrapped her arms around a bundle of carnations. The spicy scent wrinkled her nose.  
“Let’s go pan,” Gohan said after pulling up his sleeve and peaking at his watch.  
Pan’s eyes rose to his voice. She gulped down a deep breath; he had vanished from the porch. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again, giving Pan ‘the look’. It was the one that Videl supposed that he didn’t have; she was wrong. Pan hugged the flowers to her chest when she saw his black pupils settling beneath the metal frames of his spectacles.  
“Comin’ daddy!”  
The green paper wrapped around the flowers crunched in her grip. She tip-toed across the uneven cobblestone, mindful of its groves and cranies. Pan didn’t mind, she never did. Another scrape on her knee was just one more reason to pilfer through her favorite stickers—bandaids! Dinosaurs were her favorite, but ‘Hello Kitty’ would do in a pinch.  
“You’re forgett—”  
Pan hopped on her heels at the thought before Gohan finished his sentence. Her green sneakers clattered across the street, confident under her father’s watchful eye. She tugged at the wrinkles on her grey leggings and pulled down the dirt stained ends of her t-shirt dress. She threw her head between her shoulder and bowed. Stray ends of loose black hair fell over her eyes. Her single braid clumsily flopped over her shoulder.  
“Arigato!,” she said as she whipped around and skipped back to her father. She noticed little over her huffing breath, but Gohan’s pleased smile was obvious. Rogue petals danced in the misty air, leaving a floating yellow trail in Pan’s wind.  
“I think you lost more than you brought with you,” he chuckled.  
“I can’t wait to give‘ em to Mr. Piccolo!”  
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take them alone today, Pan-chan.”  
“Is he mad at me?”  
“What?”  
Pan’s brows raised at this sudden inflection in his voice. Guilt made her wring her busy hands.  
“Not at all Pan-chan!,” Gohan said.  
She wasn’t convinced. The seven year old was her father’s greatest skeptic.  
“Now why would he be?,” Gohan tilted his head over his shoulder. His meek smile morphed into something more reserved, more akin to concern. Pan’s lips puckered; she shrugged her shoulders. Pan wasn’t so concerned with ‘why’. Her mind lingered on a different phrase—‘which one’. It could have been the Saturday she paraded around in his turban or demanding a different shade of green crayon to draw him with; it just wasn’t dark enough. They were all after thoughts of the true sin; eating Po Po’s toast.  
“I dunno.”  
“Mr. Piccolo just wants to take precaution. He’s not exactly like us—”  
“Yeah he is,” she blurted.  
Gohan brought his hands together and leaned closer to her level, tailoring the sentence for the second-grader, “ Piccolo sensei is from Namek.”  
“The big green, right?”  
“Yeap, big green planet,” he cracked a smile at her, “He’s different. He didn’t want you to catch it and get sick. He has to go see auntie Bulma about it later.”  
“Guess your right,” Pan said.  
Gohan approved with a nod, happy to bury the cumbersome conversation.  
“He’s different because he doesn’t like the dinosaur bandaids,” Pan finished.  
“Pan’s innocence made Gohan’s eye lashes wet, but shame flushed his cheeks.  
“You’re absolutely right,” he affirmed and patted her head, “Now lets go see grandma Son.”  
“Grammy Chi Chi and grandpa Goku!”  
“Right again smarty pants.”

 

CHAPTER 4

Pan plopped into the dirt behind her father. Pain snatched her breath. Gohan turned at the sharp gasp. Pan teetered on her wobbly foot.  
“Ankle again?”  
“Yeah,” Pan answered.  
“When you fly, don’t touch down so hard. We don’t run with scissors because?”  
“We could get jabbed in the guts!”  
“Well sure but…,” he sighed,” It’s the same principle. Slow down when you’re trying to land,” he said as he thumped on the cottage door with his balled fist.  
The Son residence was a standard issue capsule home. It was plain, factory white, and still as small as the day it was decompressed. Chi-Chi’s grand remodeling blue prints never made it on paper. They were shelved in the nagging corner of her mind and stamped with ‘do not open until…’. The quiet settled design testified that the zeni never came and Goku was never home.  
The chalk white house filled Pan’s eyes. To her the roof reached up to the great blue sky. The wind couldn’t wrap its arms around it. To pan, its contours owned the East from the West. The empty white walls didn’t plague her thoughts. Her thoughts lingered on what kind of Cookie’s will sit on the kitchen counter, and when the river would get warm enough for a swim since the winter was old, ready to give birth to spring and die.  
Gohan stared at the quiet door and scratched behind his ear. Pan tilted her chin to his gaze, and a single brow climbed over her wide eyes. She held the bouquet by the flowers’ stems; the carnations raked across the welcome mat. She cranked the door knob and waltzed inside. She abandoned the flowers on the wooden bench in the parlor.  
“Grammy! Grandpa! We’re here.”  
“Pan,” Gohan cut her off, “We always knock.”  
“Hey guys!,” Goku waved from his stool.  
Steam rose from the piping hot cup of black coffee on the table. Pan brushed past Gohan as he took a seat. She went to the fridge with a mission in mind— some cool milk in her favorite purple cup. It had to be the purple cup.  
Gohan politely decline the empty mug in Goku’s hand. He stared into the empty ceramic mug. He didn’t have to look around to hate his mother’s absence. Her worn wicker chair sat empty. The leaky kitchen sink faucet dripped onto the empty basin. The smell of sharp black coffee lofted to Gohan’s nostrils. Coffee in itself was pleasant, but the absent smells were more powerful. He longed for hand picked oats, porridge tempered with wild honey, eggs poaching in soft-melted butter, and stewed vegetables waiting on the back burner for lunch. It was just Goku, quietly serving himself another cup.  
Gohan unrolled the top of the scrunched up brown paper bag. He sat the damp bag on his father’s table, careful to keep his elbows off of it.  
“More sassafras? Chi-chi ‘ll be tickled. Thanks,” he grinned.  
“You’re welcome. There’s something in there for you.”  
“Ohhh Gohan, don’t you be doing that,” Goku sad while he fiddled with the waxy wet paper.  
“I wouldn’t come without your favorite peas.”  
Goku’s Black eyes skimmed the meager bag. His mouth watered at the savory, white peas. He lingered on four little green bean pods in the corner of the bag.  
“Dad, where’s mom?”  
Gohan’s voice drew Goku’s attention. Gohan’s features fell flat on his face. His black eyebrows fell heavy on his narrowed eyes.  
“She went to visit grandpa Ox,” Goku didn’t miss a beat, “How’s Piccolo?”  
Pan’s cup clattered on the kitchen counter. Gohan and Goku’s ears followed. Their necks twisted. Bubbly milk sloshed over the side of the glass. Pan’s finger tips turned white as she squeezed the flimsy plastic.  
Gohan whipped his head to his father. A quiet frown crept across Goku’s lips. Goku absent mindedly stirred his black coffee. He clenched his shoulders as the spoon dinged inside the mug. Gohan sighed and bit his lower lip. His hand crept over his tell-all mouth; it was his father’s mouth.  
“He could be better,” Gohan said with a leery eye studying his observant daughter.  
Goku’s silence pressed for more.  
“Bulma still hasn’t figured it out.”  
“Sheesh, she doesn’t even know?,” Goku whispered behind a gulp of coffee.  
Gohan’s chair creaked as he leaned back into his seat. Sour bile climbed the back of his throat. A startled chill slinked down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was Pan’s stillness or her watery eyes. Gohan examined his father, and the look was the same. Gohan whished he could spit the taste of failure from his mouth.  
“Don’t cry Panny.”  
His open arms called to her. She stuck to him, like metal to a magnet. Her wet face stained his white button up shirt. The cold ivory buttons pressed against her face. He squeezed her tight, but his eyes lingered to his own father—the man in the orange gi. Gohan wouldn’t deflect Pan with a naïve grin and cheerful yet empty words.  
“I don’t want hi- -I’m to-o be sick daddy!”  
“I don’t either.”  
“Can’t Ron-Ron make him better?”  
“No baby,” he chuckled, “We already asked Shenron for something this year.”  
“What do we do?”  
“All we can do is try our best to help him get better.”  
Gohan looked to the man that saved the world. Goku didn’t say a word; he couldn’t. For Gohan, there were no warm arms to embrace him. Gohan’s eyes wandered around the little house he knew so well. Pictures littered the wall. He and Goten always gave their biggest smiles, whether it was their first day at public school, or eating home churned ice cream on the back porch. Even Christmas parties at Bulma’s house were documented on the walls. It wasn’t the awkward memories or the trauma that made his heart race, it was the dark spaces in the photograph. The absence was ominous, but the reality was painful. Gohan jittered in his seat to disguise the shudder; it was all because a simple man- a good man- wanted to literally play God.  
“Papa.”  
The soft word made Goku’s brain snap back to reality. A curious smile lifted his cheeks. A sharpness appeared in Gohan’s voice. Goku hadn’t heard it since Summer cell was killed; it was the Summer Goku left them—the year Goten was born.  
“Yeah, son,” Goku muttered.  
“Would you keep Pan-chan—”  
“Sure!”

 

CHAPTER 5

 

“Grandpa, do we have to do it today? It’s Saturday,” she whined.  
“Oh, I know, but it’s super important to your dad.”  
“How come?,” she halfway groaned and threw back her head.  
The ground raced beneath them, but it was yesterday’s news to Pan. She remembered her grand mother’s stern speech as a four year old. No flying with sharp objects. No flying in the house. No flying in public. No flying at pre-school. No flying with a dress on. No flying on Sunday. No, no, no, no—no. Pan had been viewing the world on high since she was ten months old, according to her father.  
“Cause its for your schoolin’ and all.”  
“Grandpa, I won’t tell,” she scoffed.  
“That’s not the problem,” he laughed.  
“Where are we going so slow?”  
“A rainbow, up and close, like for your project.”  
“You can get close to ‘em?”  
“I sure hope so. Cool huh?”  
“Wow grandpa!”  
“I saw it this morning before you came.”  
“But, it’ll disappear by the time we get there,” Pan said.  
“The sky’s too cloudy. It’s real hard to see.”  
“Do your mimstant-transmission,” Pan struggled.  
“I wish I could, but I need something to lock on to.”  
“I forgot about that.”  
“It’s okay. I forget lots of things.”  
They flew through the grey sky. Pan kept careful watch of Goku’s back.  
I’d be lost forever if I fall behind, she thought.  
Pan’s pink zip-up hoodie rippled against her skin. Her hair whipped around her neck and face. She imagined that she looked like a doodle in the Sunday paper, with a swirl of black lines over her head, visualizing confusion. Distant bolts of lightening zipped on the horizon.  
“I’ve got an idea,” Goku said coming to a stop, “A not so boring one, too.”  
“What is it?,” Pan hovered to a stop.  
“Nimbus!,” Goku Yelled.  
A curd yellow blob zoomed into the fog. Pan gasped and tried not to scream. Nimbus stopped between them. Pan’s pupils dialated at the dissipating frothy stream coming from Nimbus’ tail.  
“Grandpa, it’s a floating booger!”  
“No Panny,” he was duped, “He’s a cloud.”  
“You have a cloud for a pet?”  
“He’s not a pet, but a good friend.”  
“Hiya Mr. Nimbus,” Pan said.  
The cloud’s surface buzzed; it was his only reply.  
“Who better to map the sky than a cloud,” Goku reasoned, “He’ll be fast. Neat, right?”  
“He’s kawaii, like a quishy-ishy-wishy marshmallow!”  
“Hop on.”  
“Say what?,” she stopped dead in her tracks.  
“Hop on. He doesn’t mind.”  
“You sure, grandpa? I mean it’s really—”  
A sheepish grin formed on Goku’s face. He lazily stretched his arms over his head. He tuned out her mumbled excuses. He patted her back with his open hand. Her arms windmilled for balance, and her brain forgot her position in mid air. She fell face-first into Nimbus. She shuffled her piled up body from the belly of the cloud.  
“Grandpa!,” she scolded him.  
Goku covered his ‘o’ shaped lips and tried not to laugh. He had no intention to hurt—never did. It was a slow-learned lesson from his firstborn, Gohan.  
“You alright Panny? I didn’t think you’d—”  
“Eat floof!”  
Pan chucked a fist-full of Nimbus. She stared blankly while the wad evaporated into weightless yellow sprinkles.  
“Don’t throw his floof, er fluff, don’t throw Nimbus from Nimbus,” he said before scratching the back of his head, “It hurts his feelings.”  
“Sorry Mr. Nimbus,” Pan patted the cloud while Goku stepped on.  
“Hold on real tight Pan. To the rainbow Nimbus!”  
Nimbus blasted through the atmosphere, moving faster than Pan’s gurgling squeal. The moist air stung Pan’s face. Pan jerked her flappy hood over her head and pulled the drawstrings tight. Air whistled against her peephole.  
“Loopty-Loo Nimbus,” Goku called.  
Goku hugged Pan tight. Pan watched the world do a cart wheel from the hole do her jacket. Her giggling stopped. Her chin dug into her chest; it was all she could do to not fall face first into the cloud again.  
Pan pulled her hood back down to her neck. Cold air nipped at her cheeks. Pan looked over the edge of their ride. Rolling black clouds chugged along underneath, but they were sitting still.  
“Grandpa,” Pan said tugging on Goku’s gi, “What’s—”  
Pan’s arm fell to her lap. Her eyes finally saw it in the clearing clouds. Her smiling face glowed agains the grey sky, and she looked up at Goku.  
“Grandpa, that’s the rainbow! It’s the—”  
Pan stopped. Her smile wilted on her lips, like a pink lily under beating rain. Goku’s face was hard and confused; Pan didn’t understand.His brows were too rigid, not like the little facts of life that caught him off guard. Something was wrong, so wrong it soured the very air pan breathed.  
For the first time Pan realized how much taller he was; her neck ached from the awkward angle. The sun’s shadow on his face made her skin tingle. Her startled heart quieted her lips. The light drew her eyes away from her puzzled grandfather. The rainbow was there in all its dazzling colors, but Pan couldn’t tell if it was its end or beginning. The spread of color fanned out behind the colossal floating mound of dirt. A sandy white castles stretched into the sky.  
“Look grandpa, it’s like Cinderella’s castle on top of a floating ice cream cone!”  
“Yeah, sure Panny,” Goku hoarsely whispered.  
Sure, if it was burning to the ground… bizarro floaty rainbow island, Goku thought.  
“I’ve seen weirder, I guess,” Goku sighed.  
“The smoke’s weird.”  
“Yeah, the smoke,” Goku nervously snickered.  
Ominous black vapor poured from the pyramid shaped chunk of Earth. The castle bobbed up and down on its coal smoke bed. Warm brimstone tickled Goku’s nose. Goku imagined a red-faced dragon with black gills, thick with soot hiding in its den beneath the castle—blazing with angry fire forever.  
“Grandpa, you think someone’s in there?”  
“There could be.”  
“Like pirates—air pirates!”  
Goku couldn’t believe what he was about to say in spite of the situation, “Come on now Pan, that’s a little silly—”  
“Or bandits’ n aliens or somethin’.”  
“Now Panny—”  
“Ooooh, what about mad scientists!”  
“Pan…”  
“Got it! Mad pirate, robot-alien scientists wearing zombie socks!”  
“Pan!”  
Goku finally grabbed her attention. He offered her a toothy smile before puting on his ‘adult face’ as Chi-chi called it. He had been practicing.  
“Nimbus, take Pan home,” Goku said stepping off the cloud.  
“Ahh, Grandpa!”  
“If she hops off just catch her and take her home,” Goku tuned Pan out.  
“I’ll be so bored,” Pan said.  
“Listen, Pan. Go home. Grammy should be back now. You two can make cookies until I come home. This is really important.”  
“But—”  
“If someone is in trouble, what do we do?”  
“Get help, but—”  
“It’s not like they make flying fire trucks,” Goku laughed.  
“Well, I could help you get the other help,” Pan tried to talk him into it.  
“Off you go Nimbus!,” Goku said.  
The cloud reversed its tracks. Pan lost her balance and fell to her knees. Goku’s back became smaller in the distance. Pan balled her fists next to her waist. Water snuck to the edges of her eyelids. Bitterness settled on her tongue.  
“You’re supposed to watch me, not Nimbus!,” Pan screamed after him.  
Goku passed in the dreary, sky, but he didn’t turn around. Pan was sure of it; he heard her. Pan’s lungs grew rock-heavy in her chest. Strange angry tears rolled down her cheeks. She struggled to categorized the emotion in her head. She missed Piccolo, his presence, his consistency. He was stead-fast and guaranteed; Pan counted on it. Pan understood why Goku left her with a strange flying cloud. His good intentions were painful. Being alone was sharp and new. The potential realities came to life in her head.  
“Grandpa Goku please don’t go!”  
Fear pricked Pan’s heart.  
Everything dies Pan-Chan. Mr. Piccolo may leave us soon, she remembered Gohan’s words.  
Her red hand scraped her tears from her face and slung them with her fingers.  
“Grandma Chi-chi is too slow to be back by now!,” she yelled into the thick sky.

CHAPTER 6

She spun around on the puttering cloud and plopped down on her butt, crossing her legs. She crossed her arms over her stewing heart. Her tight shoulders relaxed with each passing breath. The sky seemed a little less dark and the cold air became a little more tolerable.  
Too slow, she thought as she looked down at her yellow seat.  
She whipped her neck around, hoping to still see the floating castle. No such luck. Pan stood up, and looked over her shoulder. Nimbus slowed, and glittery gold flints shed from the cloud’s surface as it hummed.  
“What,” Pan snapped at Nimbus and tapped her foot.  
Nimbus returned to its previous pace, and Pan grinned. She levitated herself a few inches from the cloud’s whipped surface. A few seconds passed, to Pan’s delight.  
It just might work, she thought.  
Nimbus climbed to the soles of Pan’s feet. Pan mustered a ball of Ki. It over flowed from her hands and spilled into her arms. She kept feeding it until it was too heavy. Pan dropped the mass and took off, like a crow with burning wings. Pan stopped during her charge to the castle. Nimbus was plummeting to the ground.  
“Mr. Nimbus?,” Pan called in response to the cloud’s whistle. Silence made the guilt grow. Pan squinted her eyes; something stirred the dull horizon.  
“Nimbus!,” Pan screamed at the ‘little cloud that could’. Pan blasted off as the cloud barreled toward her. She flew as fast as she could, but the yellow dot grew into a churning haze, hot on her heels. Pan bulleted through walls of dark clouds. She kept watching for the bouncing yellow guard. Earthy brown shades filled her eyes. Air grinded against her vocal chords before her nervous system woke up. Her body rag dolled in the mud. She threw her hands around her head while she watched her legs sail against the pale sky. The heels of her shoes sunk into the mud. Fat teardrops cleaned stripes down her dirty cheeks. Her palms slicked across the cool wet grass, and she sat up. Pan shuffled to her stiff legs.  
“Shew, Mr. Nimbus,” she complained and wiped her face, “ I’m sorry,” she reasoned with the cloud, “I can’t let him leave me.”  
Nimbus bustled over the ground in front of Pan.  
“For something that ain’t gotta face, you sure do talk a lot,” Pan said as she listened to Nimbus’ angry wind rustle the grass. Nimbus crept up to pan, until its whispy edges brushed her knees.  
“I’m not gettin’ on. Told ya,” Pan said as she turned her back to Nimbus.  
“Not getting on what?,” A gravely voice said.  
Pan’s eyes popped up from the ground. Her spine got stiff although it ached. Her hands were shaking, but she wasn’t sure if it was the pasty blue eyes looking at her or the sudden impact.  
Pan found the color blue beautiful. His eyes were no exception, but not the whimsical open sky shade Pan loved. They were hollow, like faded sun shakes in dingey windows. Pan considered it could be an illusion as he walked closer. The absence of color was true. His eyes were filled with dead, empty bloodless vessels. Pan took a step back.  
“Funny seeing a ground peddler up here,” he said.  
“That’s not my name, mister. I’m Pan,” she said as she looked up at him. Pan’s eyes traced the curve of his barrel belly to his broad shoulders. The stitches strained in his black sleeves. His chest heaved and foggy breath filled his coarse white beard. Pan never saw a shade of white like it. The closest she saw was her mother’s too many times washed cream table cloth. His hair reminded Pan of the grimey grey bath rug in her uncle Goten’s bedroom. His skin was a shade lighter than the drizzly smoke flowing from the floating island.  
“Did I ask your name, little ground peddler?”  
“Guess not, no. Have you seen my grandpa?”  
“Your grandpa? Heavens no! Have you seen my flower bed you gooped up with dirt?”  
Pan glanced over her shoulder. It wasn’t the trench she left behind, but something called for a double take. Pan’s eyes strained to check up on the hollow-faced stranger. To her relief he hadn’t edged closer. Pan tucked her leg back, then the other. Nimbus was gone. Pan tried to rub down the prickly hairs on her arms.  
“He’s tall like you and wears an orange robey thingy,” Pan rattled.  
“Do you not recall? I just told you; I’ve seen no such thing. Why, you’re the first human I’ve seen in years, little peddler Pan.”  
“Peddler Pan?,” she griped, “ It’s just pan, you, you… what’s your name mister?”  
“Which one?”  
“Huh?”  
“Tell me which one?”  
“Are there other people here?”  
“No, you tell me which one.”  
“I guess the one you like,” she shrugged her shoulders.  
“They called me Mr. Trist in the south. England dubbed me sir-cholly. My name was Xiet to the Americans. The ancients—people of long ago called me consumption. Don’t even get me started on the other planets!”  
“So…”  
“To your people, I’m Mr. Ramu,” he said creeping closer.  
Pan lifted her heel. The unexpected crunch stole her breath. The petals of a black rose crumpled beneath her feet. The spidering, brown veins of the flower made Pan turn her head. Up rooted roses found their graves in Pan’s trench. Decay teased her nostrils through the wet air. A metallic twang settled on her tongue. Black flowers waived at her from their thorny bushes, like drippy black blood clots on the ends of their needy stems.  
Pan’s heart galloped up her esophagus. She wrapped her fists in the corners of her dress.  
“I gotta go Mr Ramu. I’m sorry about—”  
“To you, it’s Mr Lan Lee. DO you not see what you’ve done to my rose beds?”  
“I do, but—”  
“You’re not gonna be a stiff-gal and leave my field like this?”  
“Stiff, huh?”  
“Listen peddler Pan, I don’t take you for a bad apple, my dear, but retributions must be made, you see.”  
“Mr. Lee,” Pan tilted her head, “ The flowers…,” she chewed the peeling skin on her lips, “They’re dead, like dead-dead.”  
“Oh, no. You’re mistaken,” he said, “ They bloom black for my work you see.”  
“I like your curly-up mustache,” Pan piped up.  
“Why thank you,” he grinned through his thin, yellow teeth.  
Mr. Lee’s heavy hand plopped on Pan’s head. He pinched a strand of her hair in his oily fingers. Pan gently pulled away, leaving static electricity on his finger tips.  
“What pretty hair you have, so dark… darker than my beloved roses.”  
“I’m leavin’ Mr. Lee—”  
“Don’t go just yet. I’m so old,” he grimaced, “ I need your help. Follow me to my workshop. It won’t take long. It’s for my work you see. The whole castle relies on me; I can’t get to the ground so easily now. You did ruin half of my roses—”  
“Already dead roses, and you’re a stranger,” she interrupted him.  
“I told you; they’re not dead!”  
Pan turned her back to him, “ My daddy’ll be mad if I go with you, not the normal kind of mad either.”  
“Of for goodness sake, he’ll be like bees buzzing in a bag when he finds out you wouldn’t help your elder.”  
“Well, I don’t think you’re a nice kinda man,” Pan said.  
“Oh, snake on a lake, girl! I’m not a man!”  
“Lady then?”  
“No,” Mr. Lee sighed, “ More like… sensei Piccolo,” he finished with a mile wide grin.  
“Okay then,” Pan nodded, “You know Mr. Piccolo?”  
“Well, I know you now, don’t I. Isn’t that good enough?”  
Pan studied her shuffling shoes. Little droplets of foggy dew settled on the ends of her black eyelashes. The glittering drops were a distraction from bleak reality. Pan’s eyes snapped forward. Mr. Lee’s impatience confronted her. Pan puckered her lips. Her braided ponytail draped over her shoulder as she shook her head; the answer was no.  
“Ah, too bad!,” Mr. Lee said as he turned his back to the girl, “I could help him… your poor Mr. Piccolo,” he dragged his tongue and walked away.  
Pan watched tiny droplets of water dribbled down the back of his calves. She frowned at his bare feet and dripping rolled up slacks.  
“Mr. Lee!,” Pan screamed at him.  
The grey figure stopped in his tracks. He stood out against the charcoal sky, like a cloud’s silver lining. Pan saw the dark circles under his eyes more than his square face and paper-thin earlobes.  
“Where are your shoes?!,” she harped and ran after him, hearing her squishy foot prints more than the rattle of her own voice.

CHAPTER 7

Goku would have missed Pan’s voice, if he had the time. He was busy listening.  
THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!  
He flew closer in the thick clouds, until the sky gave way to dull brown Earth. Goku hovered closer to the side of the floating structure. Round, clay windows greeted Goku with their empty faces. His brows furrowed and his lips puckered like the question mark that would follow his inner voice.  
Heat rises. If it’s burning, why’s the smoke not here?  
Goku sucked the clean air into his lungs, just to exhale. His foggy breath held his attention. The eye drawing cloud drifted away. Goku field the pit in his stomach drift away too; urgency left him. The threat had passed and he knew that pan was tucked away in his little country cabin by now with Chi chi—clearly safe—clearly.  
His tilted chin broke his trance. A window on a lone tower winked at him. Goku rubbed the air’s moisture from his face and looked again, squinting his black eyes. He counted the seconds between each flicker.  
One, two, three… one, two, three, four… one, two, three.  
A nervous jitter tickled his spine as the white shimmer captured his mind’s eye. It was a reminder of warm summers by the river, and the off white glisten of dead fish rotting under the sun. Winter suddenly seemed mild and fair.  
Goku pursued the light, flying into the crosswind. The familiar knock of before, like a baseball card clipped to the spokes of a bicycle wheel, pecked his bruising eardrums. Planks of cherry wood beat the air below Goku’s hovering feet.  
What a weird windmill, he thought as the wheel hummed in the middle of the tower like a rusty buzzsaw.  
Goku rode a gust of wind to the oval window.  
“Hey there,” he was elated, “I didn’t think anyone was here.”  
The room in the tower was the same as before Goku arrived. The stooped over man’s knobby knees knocked as he pushed the lever round and round the room, like a donkey in its yoke.  
“I see you’re real busy, but my name’s Goku and I just wanted to make sure things were alright here.”  
“Busy, busy, busy,” The small man grinned, like he liked the new word.  
“Say, what is this place?,” Goku said as he invited himself inside through the window.  
“Green place! Red place! Blue place!,” he snickered.  
“Um okay,” Goku cocked his head and watched the giant green lends spin round and round above his head.  
“Too busy, too busy, too busy you see. Now you go free, free, free!,” the pale man said, while briefly wiping his hands on his rainbow hombre tunic. His soft pink veins gave his white skin a rosie hue. As Goku stalked closer, he became sure; it wasn’t a sickly shade of white but otherworldly.  
“So are you an alien or what?”  
“Not quite you see. That is not me,” he answered, raising his pale pink eyes to Goku,” we were born to make color. Before your world was born, we were here first! We gave nebulas their golden spark and whole galaxies their hues. Zeno saw that Earth needed rainbows, so we came to you.”  
Goku nodded his head at the chipper explanation.  
“So, do you guys make fire too?”  
“Do what?,” The peddler shut down.  
Air swooshed into Goku’s ears as the sun lends over their heads slowed to a stop.  
“Something’s burnin’ up out here. I just wanted to be a good sky-ground-friend… neighbor? Yup, that’s the word.”  
“Burning!”  
“Uh huh.”  
“Burning, burning?”  
“You betcha.”  
“Burning, burning, burning!”  
“Hey,” Goku yelled after him, “ Where you going?”  
The cloud peddler’s smile melted. His soft, down feather like hair sprung up on his head. The color black consumed the white shades in his translucent hair, like the roots of a flimsy spring flower, soaking up black pain. His pupils blended with his purple irises, like bruises sprawling above his flat nose.  
The peddler’s short legs daddled across the stone floor. He brushed past Goku like he was common place, like the air they breathed.  
“Fast stranger fast!”  
“The name’s Goku,” he said as he ducked under the Half-sized door.  
Goku stormed down the spiraling stair well, watching the bobbing black head of hair in front of him. The shaped-by-hand stone walls soaked up their booming footsteps.  
Goku’s skin chilled in the open air although the sun beamed onto his back. Grass crunched beneath his feet. Goku peaked over his shoulder. Curiosity begged him to step back into the mouth of the tower.  
A falling basket thrashed the grass. Goku turned his attention to the breezy plateau. Goku couldn’t see the peddler’s face, but he heard him panting. Many eyes watched from the field. The chest high people bundled the stems to their white chests and tucked their baskets against their hips. Their gawking, white faces faded against the asphalt sky. Grey smoke billowed up behind the grassy cliff. Goku had seen colorful flowers in his day; they were nothing new. He didn’t bat an eye at chi-chi’s pink tulips growing around his tool shed. To him, they were invasive little weeds tangling up the blades of his plow.  
Not the peddler’s flowers. They were Colidascopes with thick green stems. Goku wanted to take a bite out of one of the roses. The colors swirled across the petals like his favorite ice cream. Chi-chi would always crush blueberries and strawberries with a wooden pestle in a bowl of cold cream. Then, she would stir in the orange slices, mint, and peeled plums with her fingertips. Saliva pooled in Goku’s cheeks.  
“Fire?,” the lends turner said, calling Goku back to chilly, wet reality.  
“Wuh-oh. Don’t you see all that?,” Goku scratched his head.  
“It’s not fire, ‘the name’s Goku’.”  
“Just Goku, then where’s all that comin’ from?”  
“‘Just Goku’ fret not. It’s part of our floating lot. Have you met Mr. Ramu? Probably not.”  
“Goku,” he said with his hand on his chest, “Who’s this Ramu guy?”  
“The fog maker.”  
“Alrighty then, I’ll just be goi—”  
“Go see him for us, please. We’ll certainly be teased. Mr. Ramu’s tongue can be mean.”  
“Then you could just ask this grouch to leave?,” Goku tried.  
“What an awful thing to plead!”  
“You said he’s mean,” Goku groaned through his headache.  
“Mean, but not a fiend. He’s like a walking obituary… one that’s necessary. Don’t you see?”  
“Uh no,” Goku hummed as the clamoring faces crowded him, “Not at all. Nope.”  
“You dope,” the lends peddler said.  
Goku cringed as clammy white hands cupped his cheeks.  
“On the darkness, hope floats!”  
“Sure where do I go,” Goku responded out of sheer desperation to flee.  
“Down the hill of bow-roses, we’ll follow the path like a river flows.”  
Goku ambled onto the hill with his fists on his hips. He turned to the shuffling crowd.  
“Did you just rhyme… with me?”

CHAPTER 8

Pan lingered on the hill side. She braced herself against the cold wind— as empty as the grassy plains of blood clot roses. Pan looked up at the black holes carved into the mountain side. They were like beady black eyes weeping smog into the air. Pan forgot for a moment what she was looking at, that it wasn’t alive. It bothered her primal senses, making the air rush from her lungs in short husky breaths. It wasn’t the smoke or even the darkness. There were no eye brows, or lashes to bat at her, nothing to indicate empathy or the ability to feel remorse. Mr. lee’s brown vest was like a blotchy tongue inside of the mountain’s toothless mouth.  
“Coming peddler Pan?”  
The grass squished beneath Pan’s shuffling wet feet.  
“Come now, won’t be long,” Mr. Lee’s cold white fingers scratched the air.  
Come with me, they beckoned.  
Pan questioned if it was dirt beneath Mr. Lee’s fingernails, or it it was something a little bit darker, a little bit thicker—blood. Turning away would be easy for Pan, but Mr. Piccolo made it hard— too hard. Pan stiffened her spine and marched to Mr. lee’s door. She stepped over the cool stone arch of the doorway. She tilted her chin and her eyes rested. She relished the accomplishment with her hands on her hips, until the heavy wood door slammed behind her. Pan’s black eyes popped open. It was as real as the cool air sucking on her skin as it escaped through the closing door. Darkness crept over the clay walls. An orange glow gnawed at Mr. Lee’s cheeks. A flame blazed on the other end of the room. Pan’s cold finger tips ached in the imposing heat. Mr. Lee left Pan standing at the door. He rummaged across long wooden benches, stretching the length of the narrow room.  
“So , um what are we doing?,” Pan gulped.  
Tarnished metal buckets littered the floor like socks in her bedroom. Pan teetered over one. She blinked at her reflection in the pool of black sludge. Tools gleamed beneath the fire’s licking flames. The confusing blades sneered at Pan. She had seen grandpa Goku’s farming sickles and the blades for his plow, but these weren’t staples of everyday life in the country side. They were dreadful although the blades looked dull. At seven years old, Pan knew sharp things Made a clean cut. Mr. Lee’s tools had to rip and tear; Pain was their only purpose.  
Pan shuffled to the middle of the floor, away from the glinted walls and the oozing buckets of slop. No territory was truly safe. She reasoned that she didn’t have enough eyes to watch the tools, the fire, or the creaky wooden sawhorses. She had two, enough for Mr. Lee’s back; Pan crept to Mr. Lee’s heels.  
“I could hide a steak from a blood hound!,” Mr. Lee huffed and stared into the flames.  
“What’er you lookin’ for,” Pan stammered.  
“My hedge guards,” Lee said as he jostled the smoldering ashes.  
He pulled the iron poker from the furnace when the flames rebelled against its clay prison. The fire’s red hands grabbed at their captor, but Mr. Lee side stepped them.  
“Too much rage, huh?”  
“I guess,” Pan whispered.  
Pan shivered. His snowy slate eyes were like hot marbles, glowing in the dark. Steam coiled from the white-hot metal tip of the molten poker. The red metal dripped onto his bare toes. His head slowly drifted over the shoulder of his leather vest.  
“Mr. Lee,” Pan gulped, “Ain’t that hot?”  
“No,” his coarse reply snuffed out her voice.  
The air grew sour on Pan’s tongue, like acid crossed Mr. lee’s lips. He popped the shaft of the fire probe back into its stand.  
“Look around, find them for me?”  
“Uh, huh,” Pan nodded vigorously, as if she needed to convince herself too, “Rage?”  
“Why yes, peddler Pan,” Mr. Lee said to her back.  
Pan scanned the tables, not sure what she was looking for, but her tongue tied itself in a knot. Her mouth begged to clarify, but her heart begged for silence. Pan’s eyes raised to the shifting shadow on the opposing wall, tracing the outline of Mr. lee’s nose.  
His back’s to me, she thought.  
Pan took her chance, and glanced at the door over her shoulder.  
“You live here, Mr. Lee?,” she blurted with her eyes peeled on his back.  
She tip-toed as he sorted through wooden and steel pots of clanking metal.  
“No. My workshop,” he answered.  
Pan used the wall to creep toward the door, despite her weak knees. She froze.  
“The mixture isn’t right. Not right!,” he allowed his tongue to flail inside his mouth.  
“Yeah,” Pan said to cover the sound of her own steps.  
“Very important you see. Not right, not right, not right!,” he rambled.  
Pan’s steps grew louder as the benches rocked on their legs and metal thrashed against the wall from Lee’s shaking fists. Pan’s pupils dialated. She was within arm’s reach of the door.  
“Keep looking!,” Lee spat.  
Pan jumped in her skin at the sound of his voice. She reached for the brass knob. Something crawled across her cheek, tickling her skin with its pestering little legs. Pan swatted her open palm against her face. Lee’s pilfering stopped.  
The sound of her smacking skin traveled down the walls. Pan grimaced. Green stringy streaks of bug guts fell on her lips. The tiny crumpled winds of the fly spasmed in her palm. Pan wiped her sweaty hands on her dress and investigated the buzzing cloud of black flies. Pan’s eyes lingered on the bucket of black slop on the floor. Her forehead wrinkled over her knitting eyebrows. The odor burned her nostrils. Burgundy filled her eyes. She felt lost in the mind numbing hum of the flies wings. Red lined the scratchy wooden trough inside and out. Black roses stewed in their own life blood, numbering in the hundreds. Their petals were swollen with their own angry tears, mourners for their own death. They stared at Pan like bloated black eyeballs wreaking of cold, wormy death.  
The dull blades of a pair of garden snips poked through the sticky red porridge.  
“Ah,” Mr. Lee gasped, “You found them.”  
He dipped his hand over her shoulder. He sunk his hand wrist deep into the gelatinous crust. Syrupy blood dripped from the shears’ handles and his fingers. Pan didn’t know foamy bubbles could be so vile.  
“You found them! You’ll make it right!,” he gasped with a madman’s canter.  
“Make…Make what right?,” Pan quivered.  
“My mixture, silly,” he giggled through his yellow teeth, “It’s not right.”  
Those words exasperated Pan.  
“I know!,” She screamed with spit flying from the roof of her mouth.  
“The smoke—it isn’t sad enough. Not lonely enough,” he growled through his clenched jaws, and his droopy grey jowels shook on his face.  
He gripped the shears so tightly, it squeezed the life-blood from his own fingers, rendering them dusky blue, like his eyes.  
A scream gurgled Pan’s throat. She tunneled through the air. Pan busted through the wooden door, head first. Her head throbbed and blood battered her ear drums. Despite the noise, Pan understood the screaming.  
“Come back! Come back! I wouldn’t cut you. Just your hair—your hair!”  
Pan ripped up the hillside, tearing clots of dirt and grass from her heels. Pan’s forehead thumped into it first. It was tree solid and sent her spine to the ground. Cold hands snatched her. Pan wriggled like a worm. She felt lee’s cold, dead nails digging into her arms. The air became a whirl wind of her tangled black hair and her fists.  
“Pan!,” he yelled.  
The struggle stopped.  
“It’s me, Pan-chan,” Goku said as he looked into her black eyes. He swiped away the tear stains on her cheeks with his big hand. Pan wrapped her arms around his neck.  
“It’s me, Panny,” he whispered in her ear.  
“He’ll get me!,” Pan deafened Goku.  
Tears soaked the back of Goku’s gi.  
A grey figure strolled up the hill. Goku squeezed Pan to his chest. Mr. Lee’s eyes made Goku’s brows fall. They glowed in the fog although the color was dusty and thin. They betrayed Lee, buzzing like wasps in his skull, voracious and eager to sting.  
“Who are you?”  
Goku’s tone made Pan clench her eyes shut.  
“Why, I go by many names. To you, I’m Rai—”  
“He’s lying Grandpa!,” Pan burst.  
“Pan, hush,” Goku said.  
His unusually stern words made Pan’s mouth dry. Her scoured heart sewed her lips together.  
“Rai Gretsu,” The grey man finished.  
“You told me your name is Mr. Lee!”  
“Be quiet Pan-chan,” Goku tried to settle her.  
“No grandpa! He told me he’d help Mr. Piccolo if I helped him…and, and I went. He chased me with scissors to cut me up into itty bitty—”  
“I’m serious Pan, if you’re telling— ”  
“If I may intrude,” Gretsu began, “ She speaks the truth.”  
“You did what?,” Goku barked in disbelief.  
“Only partially,” Gretsu rattled, “ Don’t let your short-pants in a bunch,” he smoothed his voice.  
“I don’t take kindly to some creep terrorizing little girls—”  
“Creep? I think not!,” Gretsu interrupted Goku, “I indeed asked peddler Pan to accompany me to my workshop, but I only want a snip of her hair.”  
“Look buddy, do you hear yourself ? Yet, you’re the one who is offended, sheesh,” Goku huffed.  
“Ask her yourself. Did I hurt you peddler Pan?,” Gretsu said.  
“Uh, technicallity—no,” Pan answered.  
“Then good,” Goku raised his voice, “Then by technicality I won’t have to throw you off this hill Gretsu.”  
“Child, tell him!”  
“We’re leaving,” Goku grunted.  
Goku focused his energy to gather below his feet and closed his eyes.  
“Good gracious grey! How’d you get here so fast!”  
“Goku’s eyes popped open at the familiar voice. Gretsu, Goku, and Pan turned their attention to the panting figure on the crest of the hill.  
“You okay?,” Goku said to the lends peddler.  
“Do I sound like it? I couldn’t find you in this misty fray.”  
“Oh, for Zeno’s sake, not this story book, mother goose bunch!,” Gretsu said burring his eyes in the palm of his hand.  
“Grandpa, who’s that?”  
“I met him in the tower, Pan.”  
“Is he weird too?,” Pan whispered.  
“Be nice, Pan-chan. They just don’t look like us, that’s all.”  
“No, I mean on their insides—their hearts.”  
“I see you found Ramu,” the lends peddler interrupted their conversation, “Told you he wouldn’t be far.”  
“Take your rhyming rubbish back to the castle!,” Gretsu said.  
“Mr. Ramu, this doesn’t have to be such a hassle,” The peddler said.  
“I’ve talked to Yema about your crap,” Ramu said.  
“He told me about that, Ramu. It’s part of the plan, to separate you and me. You cannot be forever freed from this castle or the land. You hold the balance in your grey hands.”  
“What do you want?,” Ramu groaned.  
“Do you see why I send you in my stead?,” The peddler turned to Goku.  
“If you say so,” Goku said, “ So you’re Mr. Ramu, too then?”  
“Correct,” Gretsu added.  
“Sure, what ever you say,” Goku barely coughed up with a straight face, “There’s too much fog, and the folks in the castle say you’re the man for the job.”  
“No, no, not too much fog. Its consistency isn’t right. It’s too angry. Too hot. Peddler Pan crashed into my roses, like hell-fire from the sky. My precious roses take root in the sadness of men, are fertilized by your illnesses, and watered by man’s tears. I can’t just regrow them by shaking a stick at’em like your finicky, blasted pansy-poos on earth!”  
“Do what?”  
“I’m the blacksmith of Earth.”  
“You make swords and stuff?,” Goku squeaked.  
“No, ground peddler, I forge the darkness, the absence of color.  
“I think I understand.”  
“You don’t,” Ramu said as his blue eyes pierced Goku’s being, “Anyway, I wanted a snip of Pan’s hair, for its color, for her sadness.”  
“No.”  
Goku’s eyes settled on the muddy ground.  
“Very well then,” Ramu sighed and turned his back to them.  
Ramu’s chin dipped to his chest, and his lips fell heavy over his chin, “Goodbye grandpa ground peddler…and peddler Pan.”  
“Mr. Ramu.”  
Goku’s voice stopped Ramu’s bare feet.  
“You can take my hair. Well, just some of it—not all.”  
“Kind regards to you, but it won’t do.”  
“Mr. Ramu, you can have some of mine,” Pan spoke up.  
“You’re certain?”  
“Uh, huh, but not all of it. Like grandpa said.”  
“Alright,” Ramu chuckled and pulled the grungy shears from his pocket.  
“And,” Pan said wagging her finger, “Grandpa has to hold me.”  
“You have a deal peddler Pan.”  
Goku frowned as Ramu edged closer. Not at the grey man himself, but at Pan’s bravery. It mesmerized and terrified Goku at the same time.  
Remu pinched a small strand of clustered hair between his chilly fingers.  
“That tickles,” Pan said as the roots lifted from her scalp.  
The shears’ blades tethered Pan’s hair. The soft new ends fell over her nose. Mr. Ramu slipped the snipped strands into his vest pocket.  
“Know what else tickles?”  
“No,” Pan replied.  
“Close your eyes,” Ramu said.  
Pan squeezed her eyes tight. Rustling fabric made her fingers clutch the collar of Goku’s shirt.  
“Look Pan-chan,” Goku said.  
“Open your eyes peddler Pan,” Ramu whispered.  
Her eyes fluttered open. A soft rose bloom ticked her lips. A prism of color adorned the petals. They were like pieces of perfectly trimmed strained glass growing from a chrome stem. It’s thorns were crisp on the yees with their holographic sheen.  
“It’s so pretty!”  
“I didn’t forget my promise.”  
“But—’  
“Yemma’s blacksmiths must be good on their word.”  
“Mr. Picco—”  
“Take it to him,” Ramu said as he closed Pan’s small, warm hand over the stem, “And have your daddy bring it back to me.”  
“Daddy?”  
“Exactly, your daddy. Then, the exchange will happen.”

CHAPTER 9

Pan ran her fingers through Midnight Sparkle’s hair.  
“… then grandpa took me back to his house. Me and grammy’n uncle Goten make cook—”  
“Cookies?”  
Pan looked up at the sound of Vegeta’s harsh voice.  
“Kakarrot took you home, and you just made cookies.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
Pan looked around. Bulla’s seat was empty on the floor. Rainbow Hash laid on her side with her comb still stuck in her mane. Pan sat alone by the space heater. Bulla sat in Vegeta’s lap. The eyes at the table made Pan’s palms sweat.  
“Hell of a story,” Beerus mumbled.  
“Yeah, what a story,” Bulma’s voice quivered, “Does your mommy and daddy know about your stories?”  
“Yeah, Grandpa said we had to tell them this one, not like the time I fell in the river when it was icy. How come?”  
“Probably because he wants to have your head checked.”  
“Don’t be an ass Vegeta,” Bulma scolded him.  
“Whatever woman. It’s for her own sake.”  
“Actually,” Whis interceded the bickering, “I would love to see Mr. Ramu. It’s been too long.”  
“You’re kidding?”  
“Not at all, Bulma. I remember the day Zeno commissioned him. If you call it a day. The partitions weren’t made yet—”  
“Whis this isn’t funny!,” Beerus sneered.  
“Oh, thank Kami,” Bulma exhaled.  
“I never said it was, Lord Beerus.”  
“Whis, you know that was the day Zeno decided that eating too many sweets is a sin!”  
The color flushed from Bulma’s cheeks.  
“It was also the day I was granted Tull,” Whis tittered with nostalgia.  
“Who’s Tulo?,” Bulma asked.  
“My first destruction apprentice!”  
“His favorite, that’s who,” Beerus added.  
“Lord Beerus, don’t be so jealous.”  
“Whis,” Bulma grimaced, “Does Earth need to be concerned about this Ramu, dude?”  
“I wouldn’t be. He’s the in-between. He’s necessary.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“Yemma and Kami said the same thing. Life is remembered as a series of highlights, Bulma. He’s the in-between.”  
“Let me get this straight. Zeno made a guy to make life suck in general,”Bulma tried to reason.  
“No,” Whis said, ‘Pan, do you have it?”  
“Have what?”  
“The rose. Check your pocket,” Whis suggested.  
Pan stuffed her hand in her pink jacket pocket, the same coat she wore on that windy, grey day. Pan pulled the shriveled flower from her pocket.  
“I forgot about it. I’m sorry,” she whimpered.  
Despair flooded her heart.  
“Bring it here,” Whis whispered.  
Pan shuffled to her feet and obliged him.  
“Now do you know why your grandpa wouldn’t work?,” Whis asked while he plucked the dried flower from her.  
“Not really. Cause he don’t get sad?”  
“I’m afraid not. No one is immune to sadness or the negative feelings of life, but he didn’t have it—the it Ramu talked about.”  
“Enough hair?”  
“No,” Whis laughed, “The lack of selfishness, the…love.”  
“Grandpa loves us!”  
“Clam down,” Whis grinned, “You’re right. He does, but sadness is born from your love. Your heart mourned for the namekian although he hadn’t died!”  
“I don’t get it.”  
“Well, I don’t understand plenty of things, like your human fascination with death.”  
“So.”  
“So? To lose means you had, to mourn means you love, to be disappointed means you trusted, and to cry means you laughed. Darkness makes the light all that much brighter. Ramu is hope’s shadow, to make a beacon for life. You can’t have one without the other.”  
“What a wacko job to have.”  
“What do you know of work?,” Whis chuckled, “It’s a difficult job,” Whis nodded and dropped the stem of the rose into Piccolo’s wooden flask.  
Bulma found Vegeta’s hand and squeezed it.  
“Look daddy!,” Bulla gasped.  
The withered flower bloomed maroon, fading into some pathetic Half-life, like a caterpillar festering in its cocoon.  
“I didn’t know crimson could be so…so filthy,” Beerus said.  
“Not filthy, but sickly. Very, very ill,” Whis contemplated.

CHAPTER 10

Pan walked through the front door and kicked off her shoes. The toes of her black slippers bounced off the wall. Pan slung her back pack from her shoulders and tossed it onto the coffee table. Gohan came in behind her. A shy smile claimed his lips, but his cheeks dimpled with excitement. Pan figured it was the keys she left in the deadbolt lock.  
“Daddy!,” Pan called.  
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re a kangaroo.”  
“Why?,” Pan asked, oblivious to her bouncing feet, “Is grandpa really coming?”  
“Of course.”  
“I can’t wait till he gets here. We’ll train, and color, and play video games.”  
“Pan-chan, take your bag off the table, please.”  
“And fly, and tell stories, and eat doughnuts,” she rambled as she retrieved her bag.  
“Eat doughnuts, huh? Sneaky, sneaky,” Gohan teased pretending not to know.  
“Daddy! You ain’t supposed to know that,” Pan rolled her tongue to match her eyes.  
“Be good, and listen to what grandpa says. I have to go run some errands and drop something off.  
“Aw, come on dad. Can’t that wait till’ tomorrow?”  
“I’m sorry, but it’s a very special delivery.”  
“Okay, okay” She huffed, “Bye daddy, I love you,” she switched her tone and threw her arms around his waist.  
“I love you too, Panny, but you know what?”  
“What?”  
“I still have my shoes on. Go to the fridge in the study and grab a bottle of water for me, please.”  
“Kay, be right back.”  
Pan twisted around at her waist, tangling her legs in the process. She tripped over the blue boots and brown moccasins piled up on the floor. Gohan held his breath. Pan stumbled forward, not even deeming it worth a glance over her shoulder. Pan’s bare feet smacked the cold wood floor on the way to her father’s study. Pan shoved the door open and welcomed the feel of his red throw rug beneath her toes.  
Pan jerked back the door on pale blue mini fridge. She pulled a plastic bottle from the bottom of the fridge, watching the neat pyramid of stacked bottles collapse in a marvelous chain reaction. The tumbling bottles spit out a sealed plastic baggy at Pan’s feet. She stooped over and peeled the sticky plastic off the ground. A smile sprawled across her parted lips. Her tiny thrilled hand squashed the shells of the speckled boiled eggs inside the bag. Air engulfed her lungs and her jaw dropped when three slanted black-marker letters on the bag stained her thumb.  
Pan  
The bag fell from her hand. She turned the corner from her father’s office before the hard boiled eggs splattered on the floor. The Gohan son’s warm red estate in the city echoed with glee.  
“Grandpa when did you get here? Who’s tha—Mr. Piccolo!”


End file.
